With Courage, Boxer Escapes His `Prison'

Skip Miller

Jeffrey always seemed so happy and involved. National Thespian Society, science club, art editor of the school newspaper, and class president. He wanted to be a teacher.

When we were doing the things 16-year-olds weren't supposed to do in 1966, he always was with us. When we debated the Vietnam War, he was the most outspoken. When another one of the gang, who weighed almost 300 pounds, wanted to be a sports-car driver, Jeffrey designed a machine to carry the load.

You hadn't seen Jeffrey, or thought about him, in years. He was one of the people who passed through your youth, a part of the tapestry of anger, adventure and bewilderment.

Then you received the letter. It was written by somebody who had been a special friend. She wrote about Jeffrey. Last year he died of AIDS. He was in prison at the time. He had been charged with murder. Because of his illness, the trial had been postponed several times.

And she wrote about herself. She has had multiple sclerosis for 16 years. She is confined to a wheelchair now. Recently she received a dog from Canine Companion For Independence, an organization that trains dogs to help the handicapped.

While you read it, your sons wrestled like bear cubs and your daughter sang happy songs. You read it while sitting in the warmth and comfort of your den, pausing between paragraphs to look out over the backyard that is your suburban refuge.

Unlike Jeffrey and Diana, you are a prisoner of neither lock nor wheelchair. You are a hostage of your own thoughts, limited only by your perceptions and phobias. Tuesday night, you still were dwelling on this when you sat down to watch Vinny Pazienza outbox Luis Santana.

Pazienza should not have been in the ring. In November 1991, his neck was broken in an automobile accident. Doctors said he would be paralyzed, and they sentenced him to a wheelchair.

But they could not make Vinny Pazienza believe them. Pazienza is 30 years old. He fought his first amateur fight at age 15 and his first professional fight at age 21. He won the lightweight title. He was the reigning junior welterweight champion at the time of the accident. The lords of boxing took away his title because they believed the doctors when they should have been watching Pazienza.

While still wearing a halo neck brace, Pazienza launched a boggling training regimen. He lifted weights, shadow-boxed, did roadwork. When the neck brace was removed, he lifted more weights, sparred countless rounds, and then announced himself ready to box.

He built himself into a 158-pound junior middleweight, more than 20 pounds heavier than the lightweight he was in 1988.

Pazienza was never a stylish or clever boxer. He went into the ring to punch and be punched. As he concluded training for his comeback, he was told one punch could cripple him. He said all fighters take that risk. He said he loved boxing too much to fear it.

And then he went out and defeated Santana. Each time he was hit, you felt a chill. Each time he clinched or danced away, you felt relief.

When it ended and Pazienza's hand was raised in victory, you felt inspired. Pazienza should not be boxing. At age 30, his best fights were yesterday. Although he has recovered from the broken neck, he takes a huge risk every time he confronts a balled fist. He wanted to fight again and he did. But that should be the end of it.

He proved he is a prisoner of nothing and that odds reign supreme only in games of chance. Now is the time for him to realize he will never win a bigger championship.